


Fleeting

by windandthestars



Category: Arctic Air
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Genital Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She imagines it feels quite a bit like the wind on the coldest of winter days, harsh, biting, stinging as it batters sensitive flesh, but as the pain fades, it’s numbing and exhilarating until the next gust comes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleeting

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as either Krista/OMC or Krista/Bobby

At first it had been a fleeting thought, swept through her mind like snow brushed from the wing of a DC-3 glittering in the light but fading quickly. Slowly the hushed whisper had grown into something more as her curiosity had deepened. It had been unpleasant at first, the idea tinged with apprehension and the mix of dread she associated with parent open houses from her school days and meetings with bank executives. 

She had warmed to the idea eventually, the thrill of the unknown winning over whatever reservations she had. There’s no one to cross the line with into reality, not here in Yellowknife anyway, and there’s security in that, enough so that she lets her mind wander more frequently, contemplate the possibilities more regularly.

She imagines it feels quite a bit like the wind on the coldest of winter days, harsh, biting, stinging as it batters sensitive flesh, but as the pain fades, it’s numbing and exhilarating until the next gust comes up. She imagines the crop, sharp black, untouched ice on asphalt glittering like oil, shiny and deceiving. Oil in cold weather was like molasses or worse, an unmoving stubborn mass. A crop when wielded by a skilled hand was light, heat lightening cracking against her skin. She knew that. She felt the burn of it in her cheeks at the memory.

She wonders fleetingly as she shifts large crates into place or drops another stack of files onto her desk if anyone has noticed the red flushing of her checks or the quiet choking noise that had slipped past her lips. It’s almost a game now, seeing how far she can push things before someone notices, before someone calls her on it. Most of the rampies are too skittish to say anything, but a few would inquire teasingly, a few others betrayed by a knowing blush.

In these moments she prefers to focus on the latter scenario, allowing their imagined discomfort heighten her own sense of the emotion, letting the anticipation build, coil deep in her stomach. This sort of anticipation, the mild jittering of nerves, has its own reward: a preflight check on a new plane, simulation training for her next check out. She knows it’s no comparison to the real thing though, the weightless sensation of flying, the perspective gained only at higher altitudes. 

These differences make her wonder what she’s missed, what it is she’s not imagining: warm hands on her thighs, teasing taps on the inside of her knees, the constant squirming to sit comfortably in the minutes that pass afterward. Would he smile or would his pleasure wash over her more abstractly, her skin tingling and warm. She likes the idea of all encompassing warmth, relishing in the feel of warm blankets in front of a crackling fire coffee mug held firmly between her hands, but it’s the thought of the smile that sits more vividly in her mind, as real as she is but distant, twisting between the tall buildings in Vancouver.


End file.
